


#6 Prequel

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Only [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: What happened before the sixth scene in 'Only'.It works as a stand alone but is intended as an explanatory prequel to the above.





	#6 Prequel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrushedRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrushedRose/gifts).



> Well CrushedRose wanted a bit more of #6 from Only, so here it is.  
> For everyone who was a little broken by #6...well, brace yourselves, this isn't really any more comforting. #sorrynotsorry

 

Initially, what lay between them had been fragile, dancing like the small flame of a match in a dark alley. That image was, in fact, the first memory Greg had of Mycroft.

“Can I help you?” he’d asked, wary of the tall, silent man standing at the edge of his crime scene.

“I believe you help my brother on occasion,” Mycroft replied.

“Ah, so you’re Sherlock’s brother, then?” Greg asked, eyes running quickly up and down, amused to see Mycroft doing the same thing.

Mycroft hadn’t answered him right away, keeping him at arms’ length even then. Their exchange was careful, filled with expectant silences and innuendos neither ever expanded upon. Nevertheless, they’d ended the evening snogging in the back of Mycroft’s car, gasping into each other’s mouths as mutual hand jobs came to their natural fruition. Greg was old enough, experienced enough to know that one late night encounter did not a relationship make. He still found himself looking for Mycroft at subsequent crime scenes, kicking himself for failing to get the man’s contact details. There was no way he was going to ask Sherlock for it. The taunts wouldn’t be worth it.

In the end it didn’t matter – Mycroft appeared silently less than a week later, and Greg handed the scene over without pause, sliding across the leather seat with barely a thought. They had talked quietly, minor comments about Sherlock, the weather, the state of the nation in general. Nothing that got in the way when they arrived at Greg’s flat and Mycroft had summarily pushed Greg against the wall, kissing him as though his life depended on it. It set the pattern for their interactions in the months to come.

There were no complaints from Greg. The sex was better than he’d experienced in a long time. He fancied it was the novelty of a male partner after so long, until he realised Christmas was fast approaching and started counting the months. They’d been doing whatever this was for almost six months now, and the thrill had not abated. Mycroft’s touch was still like fire, sending licks of flame across his skin. In the brief hours they shared Greg found himself yearning to explore every part of Mycroft, both physical and emotional.

That was the beginning of the end.

Mycroft did not do emotional. When Greg commented one evening that he’d been wondering what to buy Mycroft for Christmas, Mycroft’s response had been immediate and clear.

“Surely that is not necessary, Gregory.”

Greg was taken aback. He’d tried to explain about Christmas presents, to find awkward words to explain the growing attraction he felt, beyond their physical arrangement. Mycroft’s silence grew colder and stonier as Greg blundered through, and when they arrived at his flat Mycroft’s kiss had been almost savage. Startled into action, frustrated by his confusion, Greg retaliated in kind. They’d barely met each other’s eyes afterwards. Greg had no idea how Mycroft had pulled up, but he’d been nursing bruises for a week after.

Greg’s attempts to draw Mycroft into any conversation further than small talk were met by a blank brick wall. The harder he pushed, the quieter Mycroft became; soon, he anticipated the rough touch of Mycroft’s kiss immediately they entered his flat. He gave as good as he got, the desperate need to touch Mycroft overriding his growing realisation that while he was chasing more, Mycroft was determined to keep their association impersonal.

Much as he’d like to blame good Scotch, or even a warm pint at a dodgy pub, Greg was stone cold sober the night he fronted at the Diogenes Club, determined to have it out with Mycroft. Just because he always followed when Mycroft showed up didn’t mean he was happy with their arrangement. Flashing his badge at the doorman, mindful of the silence and old-money vibe, Greg scowled his best scowl and shoved the note he’d scribbled before leaving his office.

_Mycroft Holmes. It’s about his brother._

The doorman raised one eyebrow and indicated a leather sofa. Greg stood, obstinate; already knowing this was not a good idea. It was too late now, he thought. It had been too late the first time he’d followed Mycroft into his car. No chance of bailing now, especially when a footman arrived to escort him further into the building.

“Gregory.” Mycroft spoke as soon as his door closed behind the footman. His voice was not surprised. It was cold and furious and Greg knew that whatever it was he’d been hoping for, he wouldn’t find it here tonight.

If ever.

“Mycroft,” Greg began, then stopped. “What the hell is the matter with us?” he asked, the question half rhetorical.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied with icy civility.

“I said-” Greg began, but Mycroft cut him off.

“I heard what you said, Gregory.” He had not stepped out from behind his desk. The fact he was standing was the only concession to courtesy. “I am in fact wondering what is the matter with you. You abuse my confidence by arriving at my private office unannounced and uninvited. You abuse my trust and that of my brother by invoking his name, knowing it would grant you entry when your own would not. I am astonished you would think I had anything to do with your behaviour.”

Greg saw red as such a cold analysis of his actions. He knew he was shouting, and a part of him knew he would regret this as soon as he stopped, but he couldn’t control it any longer. Every bitterness and resentment, every hurt he’d hidden when Mycroft had shut him out, came to the surface. Words he didn’t even know he had came spilling out, assailing Mycroft as his slow copper’s brain tried to explain, to show Mycroft how much the indifference had hurt him. Desperately, Greg paused, breathing deep shuddering breaths before diving back in, voice weaker as he begged, offered the world if only, if only Mycroft would let him in.

“I believe we are done,” Mycroft said, the words as distant as Greg had feared.

“You love me.” Greg said, the words flat and certain.

“I do not,” Mycroft replied. His face was blank, but months of intimacy had shown Greg a side of Mycroft rarely seen. He was lying, and they both knew it.

“You do,” Greg replied. “I love you, and you love me, and it’s not pretty or delicate, but dammit, Mycroft, it’s not something you can just stop.”

“Yes, I can,” Mycroft replied. “We are done, Gregory. And I do not love you.”

“Say that again,” Greg growled, walking around Mycroft’s desk, pressing him none too gently against the wood panelled wall. He held himself there, breathing into Mycroft’s face, restraining the desire until Mycroft initiated it, pulling his head down for a bruising kiss that made Greg’s heart sing a savage song of triumph. Greg gave as good as he got, grabbing at Mycroft even as lips raced down his neck, sucking hard. There would be no denying it tomorrow with evidence visible for all to see.

When he dropped to his knees, mouthing Mycroft, sucking him in at a brutal pace until he grunted and came, Greg felt a fierce satisfaction. Standing, he deliberately wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, holding Mycroft’s eyes as he completed the crude gesture.

“I’ll see you,” he said, seeing the dismay in Mycroft’s eyes as he accepted the truth. Mycroft’s attraction was as strong as Greg’s, despite their opposing views on emotional entanglement. They would not be done. Not while it felt like this, while they still had this effect on each other.

+++

Hours later, Mycroft watched the fire burn low, achingly aware of the stillness surrounding him. If only Gregory hadn’t pushed. It had been fine, seeing each other as they had been.

Loving each other. Never with words or sentiment. Only bodies, coming together with understanding.

He knew it wasn’t over. He could no more stop loving Gregory than halt the sun in its inexorable path.

If only that was enough.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, eyes still fixed on the embers. Sherlock had come in without a sound, but the feel of him was familiar and obvious to Mycroft.

“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed. “Not again.” He paused. “Lestrade?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft whispered, his voice breaking. “I…don’t want to see him.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said quietly.

They sat together in the dark, the same thought consuming both minds.

Love was not enough.


End file.
